“I know.” Violet put the last pin in the Dennick boy’s diaper and set him in a nearby crib. “It’s so sad,” she said, opening her arms. “The Reverend Mother says Muriel will make it though.”
Lily’s eyes brightened. She stepped back and held both of Violet’s hands. “You have to go see her. That ridiculous Sister Immaculata won’t let me. She says I’m too delicate. But you can go.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“For me.” Lily put Violet’s hands together, pleadingly.
“I’ll think about it.”
“She has a husband, you know.”
Violet’s brow lifted.
“Well, she could have one. She said she did.” Lily sighed. “What difference does it make? I can’t stand to think of her all alone in there. She needs someone to talk to. Someone who’s not a nun.”
“If Mother Mary Joseph gives her permission, I’ll go to see Muriel this afternoon.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Lily smiled tremulously and turned toward the doorway. “Find out exactly where they cut her open.”
Violet’s face dropped. “I’ll ask nothing of the kind.”
“You must.” Lily’s eyes teared up. “I need to know.” When Violet stood in silence, Lily continued: “I can’t be cut open. I can’t!” She started to cry. “No man will ever want me. How would I explain the scar?”
Violet turned to the changing table and started folding freshly washed diapers. “You’re a selfish girl,” she said to Lily. “Poor Muriel. What she went through, and all you can think about is yourself.”
“You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. You have Stanley. I have no one. I’ll end up a spinster.”
“You made your bed.” The anger hardened Violet’s tone. “It’s Muriel you should be thinking about now.”
“I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted more for me.” Tears poured down Lily’s face as she left the room.
Violet refused to run after her. Not this time. She had her hands full with the babies who depended on her, and she liked it that way. Since arriving at the Good Shepherd, she’d grown accustomed to this temporary world, and looked forward to her duties in the nursery. She enjoyed routine. It had long been her companion, a bit of predictability in an unpredictable world. Ever since Daisy’s death, Violet liked to know what was coming. She counted on it, like she counted on Stanley. He came to her mind again, as he had all night. She stood in front of the changing table, wondering once more if he had seen her from the streetcar, cursing herself for having taken such a chance.
You’re a selfish girl. Violet’s words to her sister came back on her. You’re no better than Lily, she thought. It’s Muriel you should be thinking of now.
* * *
That afternoon, Mother Mary Joseph sent one of the postulants to relieve Violet in the nursery so she could go visit Muriel. “Perhaps you can lift her spirits a bit,” the nun had concluded.
Since the first door on the right was ajar, Violet caught a glimpse of Judith Dennick propped up in bed, paging through her Bible, the only reading material allowed in the maternity ward. Violet had heard that the Dennick baby was going to be adopted out the following week to a couple from Altoona, and she wondered if Judith knew. At the next door, Violet knocked twice and waited. When no invitation came, she turned the knob and poked her head inside. “Would you like some company?”
Muriel lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, and did not respond.
“I can come back later if you’re not up to it now.” Not knowing whether to stay or go, Violet stood at the threshold for a moment. “You get your rest,” she finally said, and started to pull the door.
“I never even got to see him.” Each word crackled along Muriel’s parched tongue.
Violet made her way over to a pitcher of water on the nightstand and filled a glass. “Drink,” she said, lifting Muriel’s head and holding the glass to her lips.
Muriel took a halfhearted sip, but most of the water dribbled down her chin. She pushed the glass away, dropped back on the pillow, and winced. “They took him away before I woke up. They should have waited.”
Violet looked around for a cloth to wipe Muriel’s face. When she found none, she used the hem of her skirt. “They probably wanted to spare you the pain.”
“They should have waited.”
Not knowing what to say, Violet pulled a chair alongside the bed, sat down, and held Muriel’s hand.
“He told me I’d be punished.”
“Who?”
“Wicked girls get what they deserve, he’d say. And he was right.”
“Stop dwelling on such nonsense. Anyone who would say such awful things doesn’t deserve a sweet girl like you.” Violet wondered to whom she was referring, but settled on a different tack. “It won’t be long now.” She tried for a lighter tone. “The Reverend Mother says you’ll be back home before you know it. She’s already sent word to your father.”
Muriel squeezed her eyes shut. “How long?”
“Three weeks. Plenty of time to recover first.” As Violet studied Muriel’s pained expression, a question jumped to her own lips. “Who is it that calls you wicked?”
“They should have waited,” Muriel said and turned her head away.
Excessive Libido in Women
When the libido in woman is so excessive that she cannot control her passion, and forgetting religion, morality, modesty, custom, and possible social consequences, she offers herself to every man she meets, we use the term nymphomania . . . Nymphomaniac women should not be permitted to marry or to run around loose, but should be confined to institutions in which they can be subjected to proper treatment.
—Woman: Her Sex and Love Life,
William J. Robinson, MD, 1929
Starting the work is two-thirds of it, as we Welsh like to say. And with Easter only six weeks away, there’s plenty of work to be done. Clean the church, wash the choir robes, sew new scarves for the Communion table—purple for Lent and white for Easter. We always have a good crowd that day. Even the most reluctant Christians heed the resurrection.
We have to wonder if the Morgan girls will be home from Buffalo by then. Violet will almost certainly lose her position at Walsh’s if she’s away much longer, and Lily could get held back if she misses too much school. More importantly, George Sherman seems to have taken a shine to Lily and has been asking all over town for her. If Lily wants to improve her lot, she needs to be in Scranton where she can catch his eye.
If they’re not back by Easter, surely they’ll be home in time for Mother’s Day. We count on them to help pass out the flowers. It’s a beautiful service. The mothers are invited down front for a carnation. Red if her own mother is living. White if she’s passed on. That first white flower is always the hardest. Heartbreaking, really, but you can’t change tradition. The preacher has us order enough carnations for all the women in the church. After the mothers have made their way back to their pews, he calls the spinsters and the barren forward so they don’t feel left out. It’s a magnanimous gesture, and one we’re sure is appreciated by the childless women who show up to church that day.
Chapter eleven
JUDITH DENNICK KNEW BETTER than to go into the infant nursery that morning, but she went just the same. She’d been etherized during the delivery and never got a chance to see her baby boy. Keeping the child was out of the question, but Judith sorely wanted to hold him before his adoption, which would take place later that day. Sadie had warned against it. “Lay eyes on him and it’ll break your heart.” But at nineteen, Judith had already had more than her fair share of pain. What difference could one more broken heart make?
She slipped out of her room, hesitating a moment at the sound of Muriel’s muffled cries next door. I’ll check on her later, Judith thought as she slipped through the hospital doors, into the foyer, and down the hallway. First, I have to see my baby. She paused briefly, leaned against the wall outside the infant nursery, and cradled her stitched abdome
n. It still bulged somewhat under her binder. Judith stood for a few seconds, steadying herself. Sixteen days of bed rest had taken their toll, but the Reverend Mother insisted on extra recovery time for the girls who’d had cesarean operations. Judith hadn’t even been allowed to go over to the church for ashes the previous Wednesday. Father Finetti had come to her hospital room after services to prepare her for Lent. Judith’s legs quivered beneath her flannel nightgown.
A moment later, she drew in a breath and turned the doorknob. Inside, three rows of cribs stretched out in front of her, each ending at a long sunlit window. Were those forsythia branches tapping against the glass, and was it possible they were already starting to green amid the lingering snow? How long had she been at the Good Shepherd? Four months? Yes, she thought. March 10. What else had happened outside those windows while she’d been hidden away?
“You’re not supposed to be on your feet yet.” Violet shifted a baby to the crook of her left arm and dragged a rocker over to Judith with her free hand.
Looking around, Judith realized with some relief that Violet was the only adult in the room. “Which one is he?” Judith’s pale cheeks flushed at the question. Shouldn’t a mother know her own child without having to ask? She walked up and down the rows, grabbing onto the cribs for support.
“Hasn’t been three weeks,” Violet said, motioning her toward the seat. “Mother Mary Joseph says—”
“I need to see him.” Judith’s legs started to buckle, and she dropped into the rocker. “Just once,” she said, “that’s all.”
“Wait.” Violet went over to the cribs, trading the baby in her arms for another. “He’s beautiful,” she said, handing the child to Judith.
The infant squirmed inside a loosely swaddled blanket before settling into his mother’s embrace. “Mama’s here,” was all Judith could think to say. “Mama’s here. Mama. Mama.” Her lips opened and closed around each syllable. “Mama,” she said again, nodding at such a simple word. She traced the arch of her son’s eyebrows, the angle of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the slope of his chin and cheeks. “So perfect.”
When the baby started to fuss again, Violet handed over a bottle that had been warming in a pot of hot water. “I think he’ll take some, if you want to try.”
“I was never meant to be a mother.” Judith brushed the bottle’s nipple back and forth along the baby’s lips. “My milk never even came in.” At first, the infant refused to be coaxed, but he finally started sucking. Judith shook her head and asked, “What kind of woman can’t nurse her own child?”
“That happens sometimes.” Violet pulled another rocker over and sat down. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Judith shrugged as she stared spellbound at the baby. In the next moment, her eyebrows shot up in dismay. She handed the bottle to Violet, laid the infant across her own lap, opened the blanket, and started counting.
“They’re all there,” Violet said. “Ten fingers. Ten toes.”
Relief supplanted panic as Judith pulled the ends of the blanket back over the child, drew him to her breast, and inhaled his scent. “What kind of woman gives up her own baby?”
After a long moment, Violet said, “Maybe you can keep him.”
“And what should I do?” Judith stood and carried the child over to his crib. “Take him with me? Show up at home with a baby? Just say, I’d like you to meet my son? as if that sort of thing happens every day?” She laughed at the absurdity of it, and tears started rolling down her face. “Do you have any idea what those people would do to me?”
Violet shook her head but kept her eyes focused on the girl.
“They’d run me out of town. Or worse. They’d ignore me. I wouldn’t be welcome. No one in the neighborhood would talk to me. I wouldn’t be invited to sit at their kitchen tables for a little gossip. I’d be the gossip. And worse still, my boy would be the gossip.” Judith kissed the baby’s forehead and lowered him into the crib. “What chance would he ever have?”
“I’m sorry I . . .” Violet walked over to Judith and took her hand. “You’re giving him the best life possible. That’s what good mothers do.”
“That’s what desperate women do.” Judith wiped the tears from her face and smoothed her nightgown.
“I’m so sorry,” Violet said again.
“Thank you,” Judith walked toward the door, “for letting me hold him.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, closed her eyes, and felt the weight of her baby once more. Her lids flew open wide when Sister Immaculata squeezed into the room.
“The Reverend Mother is asking for the Dennick infant.” The nun followed Violet’s eyes to Judith. “Bring him out when he’s ready.” Sister Immaculata blushed slightly. “The couple from Altoona is waiting in the front parlor.”
“He’s ready.” Judith stepped around the nun and into the hallway. As she passed the parlor, she turned her head in the opposite direction and continued toward her hospital room.
* * *
Hours later, Violet was still pondering the question Judith Dennick had brought up—how could a mother give up her own child? Violet wasn’t judging. In fact, she understood. It was exactly what Lily was there to do. And Lily did not have a choice either. She’d be ruined if she returned to Scranton with a baby. No one would give her a chance. She’d be forced out of school, out of the church. What kind of life would that be? Lily couldn’t stand up in the face of such shame; she didn’t have the constitution for it. She’d had everything handed to her. It was their fault, of course. The whole family. They’d spoiled her, their miracle baby, coming on the heels of Daisy’s death. They hadn’t prepared Lily for life’s difficulties. Violet accepted her part in this. She knew the dark side of life; she’d lived it every day since Daisy’s death. She had no intention of exposing her sister to such pain. Maybe if Lily had someone like Stanley by her side, someone she could depend on in her darkest hours, then she’d be able to do right by her child. Stanley, Violet thought. A man who could forgive almost anything.
When Michael started to stir, Violet lifted him out of his crib and smiled.
* * *
More than a week had passed since Stanley thought he’d seen Violet from the streetcar window. The streetcar was only the latest sighting. There’d also been Boathouse Row, Wanamaker’s, and the concert hall. And here he was, strolling purposefully along Market Street, hoping to run into her again. The first time it had happened, he’d gone so far as to catch up with the woman whose black curls beat against the back of her bright red dress as she walked toward the pier. “Violet!” he’d shouted, tugging her red sleeve. The woman had screamed so loudly a nearby policeman rushed over. The officer eventually released Stanley, mumbling something about college boys and the girls they’d left back home. After that, Stanley’s heart continued to play tricks on his eyes, but common sense told him to hold back. He’d watch from a safe distance, knowing that the look-alike would never turn out to be his beautiful Violet.
Stanley sat down on a bench and rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the memory of the raven-haired girl running away from the streetcar with a red hatbox in her hand. After all, Violet was in Buffalo, farther from him than ever. That’s what the letter that Evan had delivered had said. The last letter Stanley could expect for some months, according to Violet, though he still couldn’t understand why. He reached into his jacket and removed the pages, shiny from wear. He inhaled deeply, hoping to catch a trace of the lilac perfume that had worn off days ago.
My Dearest Stanley. How many times had he read her words? I have such good news. That’s how she had put it—her sudden trip to Buffalo to help her mother’s sister set up her new house. Aunt Hattie’s husband and lucky to find work at all. Even if that were true . . . Even? Of course it was true. But why couldn’t she write to him? I can’t send letters without raising Aunt Hattie’s suspicions. This made no sense to him. They’d managed to correspond through Babcia over the years. Why couldn’t they do that now? He pored over the letter as if a different
answer would appear, but her words remained unchanged. Aunt Hattie knows all the tricks. If she sees the widow’s return address, she’ll be on to us. And further on, can’t take the chance when we’re so close to our dream.
Something had changed, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. And why hadn’t he heard back from the widow yet? He’d written to her, hoping she’d have some answers. Stanley skipped ahead, craving the reassurance at the bottom of the second page. My love for you is everlasting. He closed his eyes and imagined Violet saying the words to him. My love for you is everlasting.
Everlasting. He held onto the word as though it were a prayer or an incantation. Just for a second, he caught the scent of lilacs, a trick of the nose, but lovely all the same. What if just this once he opened his eyes and found her standing before him?
He looked up and found an empty sidewalk, as he knew he would. When he stood to leave, he noticed the gilded sign across the street for the first time. Widenor’s Hats. Just then, a paunchy woman in a fur stole walked out of the store and started down the steps, a red hatbox dangling from her hand.
* * *
Long after everyone else had fallen asleep, Violet continued to stare at the ceiling. Her heart still ached for Judith who’d given her baby up that morning, and for Muriel, and for all the other girls who’d been forced into motherhood too soon, only to lose their chance in the end. Violet glanced at Lily, still two and a half months short of her time, wondering what would become of her after giving up her own child, her flesh and blood. How would she ever recover from such a blow?
Knowing that sleep would not come this night, Violet threw off her covers, put on her robe and slippers, and headed down to the nursery. Just as she reached the top of the stairs, the convent’s front door groaned shut. Had someone left another baby in a cradle? Violet continued down the steps, past Mother Mary Joseph’s room, to the foyer. She found the cradle empty, and glanced to the right noticing that the pocket doors to the hospital were ajar. She headed down the long hallway, looking in first on Judith, who lay fast asleep, and then Muriel. Violet tapped lightly on the door, and entered. When she found an empty bed, and then an empty washroom, she rushed back to tell the Reverend Mother, who was now standing in her doorway.
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